His bed
Bathes in light, creaks on the wooden floor,
shapes, shapes, lines, no circles.
shadow lines tear the wall,
and the sheet,
that imperceptible plaid,
the warmest gray,
how I want to see this
warm gray soak,
a little,
a lot,
too much,
much too much,
how much I want to see the shadow
line on my nipple, my jaw,
everything around the bed is linear,
lines and angles, no circle.
- the only curve will be me.
Oh he did it on purpose
he wanted the only curve to be me.
There between lines of light, in those
tiny squares, in the warmest gray
of the world,
there I want to live,
with my Flanders lace,
to come,
to disappear,
to melt,
to hear the the noise of my cells
falling in the wooden floor
that
only that
in his bed
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